


gone

by venndaai



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: after malachor the exile's companions think about her, and kreia, and loss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> very short thing i wrote ages ago but i wanted to give the fexile/kreia tag more love

Visas saw all along that the Exile cared for Kreia. It wasn't hard for Mical to figure it out, too, later. They tried to comfort her after Malachor. Mical repeated what his teachers had taught him, so many years ago, in a different galaxy. She’s not entirely gone. She’ll always be with you, in the Force. Visas nodded in agreement. No one is ever truly lost, she said.

The Exile shrugged them off, saying flatly, “No. I know she’s gone. She was tired. She got what she wanted; she isn’t a part of anything anymore. Not the Sith; not the Force; not me.”

Privately, Visas had doubts. For so many years, she’d been sure her people were obliterated, had been utterly consumed by Nihilus’s hunger. But it had only been her trapped in his darkness. On the Ravager, she had been freed and they had returned to her. She wondered if anything could really prevent a being from joining the Force.

Mical’s irrepressible optimism wouldn’t let him believe in a final death either, but mostly he disagreed on a different point. He knew the Exile still carried around a piece of Kreia, the way she carried all of them, the bits and pieces of other people she’d sewn onto herself. The bonds that could never truly be broken. Mical couldn’t stop watching her, and though Mical had no intact memories of Kreia, he still saw his teacher’s teacher surface sometimes in phrase construction or vowel inflection or arm movement, the way he saw Mira in the Exile’s stance and Atton in her long false grin, the way he sometimes thought he could glimpse himself in her reasoning process- though he was probably just flattering himself. 

T-3 remembered everything. It asked the Exile questions about Kreia. Sometimes she answered. Most of the time she told T-3 to stop chattering and get back to work; occasionally, if she was in a foul mood, she’d switch the droid off, though she would apologize for that afterward. T-3 often wondered what Revan would have made of all this.

If droids could use the Force, it might have been surprised to find out that Mandalore spent a great deal of his time thinking the same thing.

Bao-Dur said, General, and Mira said, Hey boss, and these were both questions trying not to be. The Exile had no answer for them. Not yet. Maybe she would, with time. She left them in the cargo bay, fiddling with devices and practicing their saber sparring.

Brianna felt awkward, out of place. She couldn’t share the Exile’s grief for a woman she’d only just learned existed. None of it had anything to do with her. She did Echani fighting exercises until she was too tired to feel jittery any more. 

Atton didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He was the only other crewmember who’d really known the old lady, and though he’d feared her he’d never quite been able to bring himself to hate her. For one thing, fierce, pure hatred was one of those emotions Atton had trained himself out of feeling long ago, one of the things he’d left behind with Jaq. For another, he’d felt a strange connection to Kreia, like an echo of the bond that tied him to the Exile. Triumvirate. He’d heard that word from Kreia, and it had reverberated in him, and he’d known then that in some other dimension the three of them were something more, something enormous and terrible. So it was sort of a relief, the idea that she was never coming back. He thought that if he ever got a choice he’d probably choose the same. One life gave a person more than enough opportunities to fuck up. He never wanted to know how much worse he might have been.

 


End file.
